


My Lightning Strike

by mayogee



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Everyone Is Gay, Implied/Referenced Sex, Light Angst, M/M, References to Depression, Romance, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard, hanamaki is an artist, i try idk man, lol, matsukawa is a baker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28852095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayogee/pseuds/mayogee
Summary: The exhibit is coming up, and Hanamaki has no idea what to do, but then he meets a certain baker who makes bland profitroles.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	My Lightning Strike

“It’s bland.”

Hanamaki pushed his plate away. He was tired, too tired to even process the salt and spices in the supposed fried chicken. The store-bought karaage was cold and tasteless, and it was nothing but an unnecessary weight on his tongue. 

He forced himself up from his living room. Even his clothes and skin and his eyesight and the coldness of the air all felt like a burden to his senses. Like they weren’t supposed to be there, because he was detached from his body and all these feelings of physicality are unnecessary and a waste to process. But he shook his head. He was on solid ground. His feet were flat on the floor and he was very much contained in his body, inside his skin, underneath the layers of his clothes. Nonetheless, he felt that he was otherwise. 

On his way to his room, he passed by his art studio, and the awful mess inside it. _A sight for a sore eye_ , he thought. With all the broken canvasses, _the ones I broke,_ and the ripped papers, _the ones I ripped_ , and the paint scattered all over the wide room. He saw several brushes unnaturally split into two. The mess he made of his room fell to his realization as an unpleasant surprise. In sheer disgust, the door closed from a harsh swing of a hand. 

That evening, sleep didn’t come easy, just like the other night, and the night before, and so it goes. His eyes, as if it had been sewn open all night, adjusted itself to the light peeking from the corner of the window when morning came. Hanamaki was certain he had been asleep but he hadn’t been relieved from exhaustion. Instead, the continuous flow of his senses being processed into thousands of thoughts and then leaving his mind finally came to an end after hours when his morning alarm rang. 

_Was I dreaming?_

He got up, brushed his teeth and changed his clothes. He was headed out to work once more, with the burden of seeing, smelling, hearing and feeling anything and everything, yet it was as if he was never really there. 

***

“Hanamaki, wanna come with me?” Iwaizumi asked.

They were on their way home from the station, about to go their separate ways when Iwaizumi invited him to a pastry shop Oikawa mentioned.

Hanamaki shrugged, “Sure, why not.”

***

It was located on the more remote side, in the outskirts of Tokyo. The place was called “Pine Tree River”. It’s name, written in English, was engraved in gold on a black signage. _As in, Matsukawa?_ Hanamaki thought. 

They saw Oikawa waving from the inside. The place was pretty, as per Hanamaki but that was all he could say. Classy, maybe, with its dark motif and all that but Hanamaki couldn’t give two fucks about a sweet shop bustling with so many teenage girls. It was a little noisy, with their high-pitched giggles, or maybe it was just his ears being too sensitive to literally anything. But he couldn’t help but be glad that no eyes were on him.

“You see,” Oikawa began. “This shop had been around for a while now, but rumor has it that the baker here is quite hot.”

“Ah,” Iwaizumi frowned. “I thought it was about their food.”

Hanamaki eyed his surroundings, slowly calming down as his mind eased into his friends’ conversation. “This shop isn’t so bad. I thought it would be the interior that made this place famous.”

“Nah,” said Oikawa. “Even I’m here to get a piece of whoever the hottie might be.”

Hanamaki shrugged and decided to take a bite from the profiterole he ordered. The hardened chocolate cracked, his teeth pierced through the pastry and the cream filled his mouth. 

“It’s bland,” he commented as he swallowed. “And dry, too.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” said a waiter as he set down the other two’s plates. 

Hanamaki’s jaw hung open. The waiter had a nice voice, his dark skin and curly hair complimented his white apron well, and his chest was wide, his muscles looked firm, and his mischievous smirk and his deep dark eyes--. For a moment, Hanamaki was kind of lost. Until he processed what had been said.

“Oh, no I didn’t mean to,” he raised his hands in defense.

“To stare?” the waiter grinned. “Or to call my pastry bland?”

_His what?_ _What? Oh. Shit._

“Ah. Both?” He tried to give an apologetic smile, face flushed in a deep shade of cherry. “But that’s because my taste is fucked up.”

“So you’re saying I’m also…,” the, apparently, _non_ -waiter trailed off. “Bland?”

“No!” Hanamaki panicked. “I think you’re hot!”

The other chuckled and said, “Thanks. I’ll work on my profitrole so both of us could fit your taste.”

_What?_

  
  


The man walked away while Makki was left shaken. _Oh._ His face was still red. Iwaizumi and Oikawa stared at him, both grinning to themselves. 

On their way home, the three of them walked to the station together.

“Who was that guy?” Hanamaki grumbled as he shoved his hands inside his jeans. 

“That guy? That’s Mattsun.” answered Oikawa, unamused. “He’s actually my friend back in highschool. He’s the hot baker everyone’s waiting in line for.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Iwaizumi clicked his tongue.

“Iwa-chan, don’t worry. I only invited you guys to support him. He didn’t tell me about starting up a business here in Tokyo.”

The conversation continued to drag on, but slowly, it faded as Hanamaki’s thoughts wandered back into the baker, and his toned muscles, and his curly hair, and his deep, sharp eyes. There was a little smirk on his lips that Makki didn’t fail to miss. He was definitely his type alright. 

When they went their separate ways, Makki was left with his thoughts once more, and so the chilly wind made its way to the nape of his neck. A quick spark in his chest had been made, changing the usual course of his mind, or so he thought. Now that he was back being alone, the baker didn’t mean so much after all. He was hot, and if the situation leads to something, maybe it would be nice to meet him again, but ‘Mattsun’ was a stranger, and so was Makki. 

The evening, the walk home was colder than usual.

***

_“Mattsun?”_

_Matsukawa looked back and saw a familiar face, just right behind him in the same dairy aisle in the grocery. He smiled, “If it isn’t Oikawa.”_

_“Woah, it’s been a while! I didn’t think I’d see you grocery shopping in Tokyo,” said Oikawa as he approached him._

_“I live here, though,” Mattsun shrugged as he eyed a butter from the chiller. “I settled here a year ago.”_

_“What? Why didn’t you tell me!” Oikawa whined._

_Mattsun chuckled and said, “I figured I’d tell you in the next reunion. But now you know.”_

_The two continued their casual talk until Oikawa asked, “Hey, Mattsun, are you seeing anyone?”_

_“No,” he answered. “But I’m sure_ you _are.”_

_“Duh. ” Oikawa laughed. “It’s just there’s this guy I want you to meet.”_

***

Matsukawa sat in his kitchen stool. _I’m sure it was that guy_ , he thought. But Oikawa seemed to have forgotten to introduce him. _No_. Mattsun recalled Oikawa’s companion who called his profitrole bland. The anxious mess of a pink hair who eyed his surroundings in sheer discomfort. Maybe Oikawa decided he shouldn’t for now, and Mattsun decided not to pry too much. 

More than that, he grabbed his recipe and skimmed through the pages until he reached the page for profiteroles. He didn’t expect anyone to order something from the very bottom of the menu. He was still in the middle of fixing it overall, but he didn't want it to be called bland. A sigh escaped his lips as he grabbed his tools. He needed to work on it, he can’t have anyone calling him a cheap baker who’s only famous for his looks. 

***

The door to his studio was like a grand entrance in a game that leads to the boss fight. Hanamaki preferred it closed. But lo and behold, his source of income, his ticket to paying his rent was indeed a boss fight. And so he twisted the freezing knob, and he was met with an awful air of disappointment as his tools remained broken. _No shit._

He fell onto the floor and stared at the ceiling. He needed a new piece. The exhibit was 2 months away, and he promised them a new piece was coming up. And if he sold it, that would be nice, too. A groan forced its way out of his throat as he got up.

He hated going out as much as he loved money, and so this inner conflict that's constantly fighting within him always ends up with never getting anything done. But today was different. 

The trip to the art store was just as he had expected. He earned several glances from strangers, and some even approached him.

“You’re HanaTaka aren’t you?” one had said earlier. “I’m a huge fan of your work!”

Hanamaki nodded and mumbled a quick ‘thank you’. That’s all he could do. It wasn’t that he hated fame, or being recognized in general, he just didn’t like _why_ he was famous. 

He went around the store as fast as he could, but when he was on his way to the cashier, he noticed more and more people are looking, whispering amongst themselves. A lot of them were young people, highschool seniors and college students, debating to themselves whether they’d approach him or not. 

Unsure of what to do next, he paid for his stuff and gave everyone a quick bow before rushing out. With the small commotion some of them caused, a lot more people had their eyes on him.

_“Look, that’s definitely him!”_

_“It’s HanaTaka in the flesh!”_

_“I’m a huge fan of his artworks!”_

It wasn’t like he was being bombarded with questions, but as a Tokyo-famous artist and a constant media topic, he was bound to earn a crowd. Nonetheless, being around a lot of strangers was tiring and overwhelming for him. 

And then it hit him. He had been too focused on the eyes of the crowd, he hadn’t realized that he was walking the opposite direction from his apartment. As he eyed his surroundings, the street he was in was a place he’d been before. He rushed a few quick turns and as he quickened his pace, he eventually saw Pine Tree River. 

Makki finds himself entering the shop, securing a seat where there were less people. It was around noon on a weekday, so there weren’t many teenagers around. 

Instead, he saw the black ceiling, and the dark, rosewood floors. The dark walls were lined with gold, and the music was a soft, lo-fi beat. He liked the place. It was a nice way to get a hold of himself after what felt like being chased. 

Well, it was a nice few moments. 

A man walked in with a camera, eyeing the place and lighting up when he saw Hanamaki seated. He approached him and flashed a quick photo. 

A couple, dumbfounded blinks; a photo was taken without his consent and all he could do was keep his head down and hide his face. The photographer went nearer and asked, “You’re HanaTaka, right? May I ask you a few questions.”

Makki’s jaw clenched and gave firm “No” but that didn’t stop the photographer from coming closer as he proceeded to ask, “Why are you in such a quiet coffee shop? Are you perhaps waiting for someone?” 

He then added, “I’m actually a reporter. Do you think you can tell me anything about your new piece? The exhibit is only 2 months away after all.”

Hanamaki kept his head down, too overwhelmed by the intruding stranger. He managed to utter, “Please stop.”

The photographer smiled. “Come again? You’ve stopped making art?”

There was a hint of mockery in his voice, it was the tone that repeatedly swirled around his head like the unwanted visitor he was. His thoughts came to a pause as heat climbed up his veins. 

Hanamaki fist slammed the table and shouted, “Shut the fuck up!”

“Woah there,” the other chuckled. “I’m just asking questions nicely, as your fan.”

He took a deep breath, and in the short time he collected his thoughts, there were more people around, gathering from the commotion, and eventually recognizing the famous HanaTaka. It didn’t take long before a good number of people started asking questions about his purpose in the pastry shop, and the new piece he was supposedly working on.

“Excuse me,” came a familiar voice. “Are they bothering you?”

‘Mattsun’ came over with a tray on one hand, and Hanamaki felt relief settle in, until he realized this could birth into something worse.

“No, it’s fine.” He let out an unconvincing choke.

Mattsun sighed. He faced the crowd and gave them a nasty glare. “If you’re bothering this guy, get the fuck out.” 

Maybe that call was wrong. Everything he feared immediately unfolded when Mattsun’s declaration only caused more havoc. 

_“Is he your boyfriend?”_

_“Do you know this man?”_

_“Is he the cause of the delays in your art?”_

_“Are you taking a break for him?”_

Hanamaki froze at the number of questions being thrown right in front of him. The voices, he couldn’t quite process as they began fading and overlapping each other, but it was loud, still. And his vision was doubling and his breathing was clogged and there was rising pressure in his ears.

***

The crowd was getting on Matsukawa’s nerves. He called the police already. It was concerning enough to have a small group of people cause that much disarray to one person. He had an attempt to kick them out all to no avail. 

“You should handle the rest,” he told his manager. “I’m taking this guy right here inside.”

Mattsun didn’t get his name, but the HanaTaka guy, who called his pastry bland a few days ago, had gone quiet after a few meek attempts to answer them. He grabbed him by his arm, gently tugging at it and walked him into the door behind the counter, into the kitchen. 

He had him seated on the stool by his stainless table, where all freshly-baked pastries were left to cool. Matsukawa offered a glass of water which the other abruptly grabbed and downed in swift.

Mattsun rested himself by a shelf and faced HanaTaka. 

“You good?”

The other gulped. 

“Yeah, thanks.”

But HanaTaka’s eyes didn’t have any sort of focus, and Mattsun knew he was still shaken. 

It was astonishing. Matsukawa never once thought that this would be their 2nd time meeting. He was sure that by then, he’d have a better profiterole on hand, one that wasn’t bland, and he was ready to make him eat his words. Instead, he was met with the same anxious mess of pink, except Mattsun was taking care of him. Instead, he felt some sort of pity, and curiosity towards the man in question.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked.

The other raised his head, and finally, his eyes were focused on something, less lost than he was seconds ago. 

“I’m Hanamaki.

Matsukawa wanted to ask more, but instead shook his head. “I’ll deal with rest. Stay here for now.”

By the time he got out, the police were there to deal with the customers.

***

Around 20 minutes later, Mattsun came back to the kitchen. He saw him inside, but the tension never quite left him. This time, Mattsun sensed something more rational from him, but the way Hanamaki glared at his phone was different from his mood earlier.

“What’s wrong?”

“Um, Mattsun?” Hanamaki trailed off. “ _-san_?”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t mention my name,” the other chuckled. “It’s Matsukawa. But Mattsun’s fine.”

“Right,” Makki nodded. “We have a problem, Mattsun.”

The phone screen displayed a twitter post regarding the earlier incident. He handed his phone to Mattsun, who in turn giggled at the sight.

“HanaTaka, a famous artist who resides in Tokyo,” Mattsun read in between snorting. “Possibly dating the recently trending Pine Tree River’s baker, Issei Matsukawa.”

Hanamaki shook his head. 

“This isn’t a laughing matter.”

“I gotta commend them, though,” said Mattsun. “They even caught me grabbing your arm on camera.”

The other groaned. Hanamaki was certain no one would follow him home. They already got what they wanted: they had new content to post, a new topic to feed off on before the exhibit. _Great_. 

“This.” Makki harshly pointed at his phone screen. “This thing may go well for you, your shop could get recognized more. But for _me_ , this fucking sucks.”

Matsukawa’s face darkened as he crossed his arms. He leaned on his shelf and relaxed himself. Watching Hanamaki walk around in circles was sort of amusing, he had to admit. But he did have _some_ conscience for the other. He asked, “You can just ignore it. Why are you invested in this?”

“Because,” Hanamaki shrugged. “My art is controversial.”

“What’s your art about?”

“Making a bold statement,” he answered in between circling around.

“What bold statement?” Mattsun followed.

The sound of consistent footsteps came to a halt. Dread eventually rose inside Hanamaki as he struggled to answer the question. Matsukawa, as apathetic as he seemed, was waiting for an answer; he had to give it. He got dragged into Hanamaki’s mess so he had the right to know.

Hanamaki gulped.

“Let’s just say I make my disturbing perception of this world a reality.”

Matsukawa stared at him, straight into Hanamaki’s droopy eyes. Makki could’ve sworn his chest was being pried open by the depth of Mattsun’s dark eyes. 

And then it clicked. He liked Matsukawa’s face, and the broad shoulders and the curls of his hair. Maybe something could come out of it. _A game changer._

***

Somehow, after Makki’s vague, _vague_ confession of his art, Mattsun noticed a slight change in the painter’s mood. Makki leaned by his table, eyeing Mattsun from head to toe. 

The instant change in his demeanor was odd, with no air of anxiety left. He was being observed, like a still owl watching its prey. And then he spoke.

“Mattsun, wanna be my model?”


End file.
